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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653355">all my hungers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox'>screechfox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical suicidal ideation, Discussion of Death, Hurt/Comfort, Low Level Mind Control, M/M, Post-Episode 159, Season/Series 04, The Scottish Safehouse, beholding powers, obligatory allusion to good cows</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 14:26:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,363</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653355</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Being engaged in domestic bliss in the Scottish Highlands doesn't stop the supernatural creeping back in to Jon and Martin's life. (Or, Jon gets hungry.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>497</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all my hungers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Really, Martin should have expected it long before it actually happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re down in the village, getting food and making awkward but endearing small talk, when Jon cuts himself off mid-sentence. He’s silent for several moments, head tilted like he’s listening for something, then he begins striding towards the check-out, leaving Martin alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin follows, remembering the tear-stained face of the woman who had complained. On impulse, he reaches out with one hand, and grabs the back of Jon’s shirt. </span>
  <span>Jon comes to an abrupt halt, shifting against Martin’s grip so he can make eye contact. His gaze is intense, his pupils wide and devouring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin, you don’t understand, I need to—”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin brings his other hand up to cover Jon’s mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not hearing it, Jon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The expression that flashes across Jon’s face is unreadable. There’s something of fury about his eyes, something of relief to the flat line of his mouth below Martin’s palm. He nods, grim and understanding, and Martin lowers his hand to Jon’s collar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Power ripples in the air as Jon opens his mouth again; the kind of thing Martin only recognises because it’s so different to the way the gentle power of the Lonely had felt. Jon’s power is vicious and clawing, ready to tear the world apart in pursuit of terrible knowledge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Martin reminds him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He balls his hands in the collar of Jon’s shirt, tighter and tighter until he’s not sure how Jon is even breathing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jon even breathing? The full force of Jon’s gaze — or maybe the Archivist’s gaze, if there’s even a difference — is directed at Martin, peeling him open at the seams. Unwillingly, he remembers how Jon’s questions can kill so easily, if you don’t want to be seen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at me, Jon.” Old instincts tell Martin to retreat, to hide from that searching gaze, but Martin does his best to stand firm. Jon is safe, he tells himself, even as Jon’s eyes reach into his soul and pull out each and every spark of doubt still nestled in his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me go,” Jon commands, calm words winding low and sinuous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin’s hands loosen despite himself. Would it be so bad if Jon took this one story? It might help them learn more, it might help him feel less tired, it might give Jon enough power to protect them from whatever is coming for them. Jon smiles at him, fond and affectionate and just a little too pitying to feel like the whole truth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His words are echoing in Martin’s head, his power tingling down Martin’s spine, and Martin feels a flaring of true anger as he grabs onto Jon again and presses him against the shelves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a cough from an approaching salesperson, and the spell is broken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is everything alright, gentlemen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin can </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jon coming back to himself, like he’s waking up from a trance</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… Yes.” He sounds unsure, shaky, human, and Martin slowly lets him go. The salesperson purses their lips, and Martin makes a silent resolution to go and pay as quickly as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Martin echoes. “We’re fine. Sorry for bothering you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t speak until they get inside. His eyes flicker with fear whenever Martin tries to broach conversation, and in the end, he stops trying. They don’t even speak until they’ve unpacked their food and they’re sitting on the sofa together. Martin reaches out to Jon’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that, in the shop?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Jon says, directing the non-answer into his mug of tea. “I think… Perhaps it’s best if I don’t leave the house from now on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not locking you up, Jon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would be safer.” Jon’s voice is distant, musing, and Martin wonders— is this how he’d sounded in the Lonely’s grip? “At any rate, it’s hardly captivity if I agree to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it what you want?” Martin asks, and Jon lets out the most scornful laugh he’s heard in years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not. Esoteric matters aside, I’m not eager to spend the rest of my days trapped in a dusty safehouse while we have the entire Scottish highlands at our disposal.” The spite fades as quickly as it appeared. Jon sighs, still not looking at Martin. “But I’m used to it. It’s for the best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did Basira tell you that?” When Jon laughs this time, it’s just tired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Martin. I did, because it’s the truth. If I want to avoid hurting people — innocent people, people who are free from the games these powers play with our lives — I have to stay away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds like the Lonely speaking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe. Maybe not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This doesn’t seem like an argument that Martin is going to win, not just yet, so he relents for the moment. He pulls Jon closer, not that it does anything to warm either of them up these days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It isn’t hunger, exactly,” Jon says after a moment. “That’s just… the easiest analogy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin stays silent. He’s happy enough not knowing, but Jon seems to need to say this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It hurts like being hungry, but in my mind, my thoughts. Like I’m being eaten away, piece by piece. Old statements help, but there’s—” Jon cuts himself off with a scoff. “There’s no </span>
  <em>
    <span>nutritional value.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The supernatural equivalent of empty calories.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin links his fingers with Jon’s, trying not to think about the way Jon’s bones show through his skin at every joint. No amount of home-cooked food has made him look less malnourished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s different with the fresh ones— with my, my victims. As soon as they start to feel afraid, I feel better. Calm and focused and… better. Obviously I’m not, but it feels that way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t seem to realise the white-knuckled grip he has on Martin’s hand, almost painful in its intensity. He pulls Jon closer, feeling how light he is curled against Martin’s chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to die, Martin. I don’t think so, at least. But if living means hurting people… What choice do I have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not going to die, Jon,” Martin says, wishing he could be sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and me both,” Jon murmurs, and Martin knows it’s not a reply to what he said out loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what happened in the shop, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There was a man at the check-out,” Jon starts, eyes going unfocused. “I glanced his way, just for a moment, and then— I knew he had a story to tell me. Slaughter, or— or Flesh. I could feel the edges of it, taste the blood on his tongue like he did years ago, and I wanted more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t take it, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, because you stopped me.” Jon huffs, his gaze focusing to glare at Martin, then all the tension bleeds away at once. “Thank you. I know— I tried to make you let me go. It’s a lie to say I didn’t know I was doing it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I felt it,” Martin confirms, thinking of seductive thoughts filtering into his brain, trying to persuade him that Jon’s feeding would be for the better. “Have you always been able to do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I don’t know. I think it was passive once — Daisy mentioned it, getting a tape in her hand and suddenly wanting nothing more than to come and give it to me. But otherwise… Floyd? Maybe even with Manuela and Peter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a little terrifying,” Martin admits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure,” Jon agrees, bitter humour lacing his words. “It doesn’t put me at ease either, in all honesty. It’s a little too close to something the spiders might do, and— I’d prefer not to think about that, really. Not that it’s as useful as anything I’ve read about Annabelle Cane doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s— well, that’s probably good, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t reply. Martin is learning to tell apart his silences, and this one is contemplative in a dangerous way, one that will lead to thoughtless remarks or reckless actions if left unchecked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow,” Martin murmurs, “we’re going out walking in the fields.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are, Jon,” Martin insists more firmly. “Who are you going to ask questions, the cows?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon laughs, startled, then laughs more, a lovely warm sound that sets Martin’s heart at ease.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading! as always, you can find me at <a href="https://screechfoxes.tumblr.com/">screechfoxes</a> on tumblr! have a good day!</p><p>(also, for those of you looking for non-jonmartin ships, there's a <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmararepairs2020/works">rarepair exchange</a> revealing works later this week, and i've got a few things hidden away in the mix :3c)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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